Jeri Westerson - The Demon’s Parchment

From behind, the light whooshed again and Golem or no, Crispin knew only that he had to reach that light, had to save Jack, and despite the sweet darkness straining to pull him under, he heaved himself up and staggered toward it.

“Radulfus? Is that you?” came the voice from the light. “Come quickly! We are almost ready!”

Crispin pushed himself from column to column. Everything around him was blurry from the pounding ache in his head. Blood trickled into one of his eyes. But the thought that his knife was still miraculously in his hand spurred him on and he was at a doorway. Carefully, he slid inside and leaned against the arch. Braziers burned brightly against a far wall where strange markings were etched on the stone, much like he had seen on Jacob’s parchments. At the other wall were tables engorged with food and drink, while pillows and furs lay strewn about on the floor, fit for a Saracen. Among the many pillows lay a pale, ginger-haired figure, devoid of shirt, his stocking-covered legs splayed lazily, his head lolling drowsily to the side.

“Jack!” he hissed.

Crispin stumbled forward only to be stopped by Giles’s voice behind him.

“You! Damn you, Guest! You won’t ruin my plans.” He swung and Crispin ducked.

Giles grinned, getting a good look at Crispin’s bruised face. “I see Radulfus took care of you.” He laughed and gestured back toward Jack. “You know this boy, Crispin? I knew you had the predilection.”

Jack was breathing, he could see that, but he was obviously drugged. “What did you do to him, you bastard?”

“Had I known he was your plaything, Crispin, why. . I would have been certain to steal him sooner.” Giles laughed.

Crispin steadied himself. “I’m taking him home.”

The man sighed. “That would foil my plans considerably. Tonight is an extraordinary night.”

“Afraid the Devil won’t come? I have an inkling he’ll make a special journey just for you.”

“Oh, so Radulfus told you.” He seemed disappointed. He snatched a glance behind. “I wonder where my cousin has gone off to.”

Crispin put a hand to the side of his aching jaw. It did not help his throbbing head. “I imagine he’s explaining a few things about now.”

“Explaining? To whom?”

“Saint Peter.” Stall! “I may not look it, but I did not lose our fight.”

Giles frowned and looked behind again. Crispin took that moment to reach toward Jack but Giles stuck out his foot and easily tripped him. He barked his chin on the table and tumbled to the floor. Head spinning with stars and the edges of his sight fraying with blackness, he could not rise any higher than his knees.

Giles was beside him and grabbed his hair, yanking his face up. “I’m glad you are here, Crispin. You can witness my triumph. Always you were snatching victory out of my hands. Not this time.”

Crispin’s bleary eyes slid to the helpless form of his servant, half-naked, prepared for an unspeakable act of violence.

Giles laughed again, seeming to read the patter of Crispin’s mind. He left him and moved to Jack, lifting him. The boy whimpered and writhed, trying to fight off the potions. Giles carried him to a table before the brazier and laid him upon it. He took up a stack of parchments, showing them to Crispin. “You see these? Magic and secret incantations worked on over many years. Do you see the ink? It is blood, Crispin. The blood of my boys. I dipped my quill in their still warm and running blood and I wrote out the words so I could read them aloud at this triumphal moment.” He turned away from Crispin and spoke his words to the strange markings on the wall. The braziers on either side of him seemed to flush and spurt with an unnatural glow. Crispin tried to shake out the dizziness in his head and climbed to his feet, bracing a hand on a table. He saw a flash of silver, the knife in Giles’s hand as he waved it over Jack.

Through his hazy vision, Crispin saw the flames rise and cast wavering shadows on the wall. The flames took shape. One looked like a dragon while the other was the image of a figure rising slowly from the flames.

“It’s working!” cried Giles over the roar of fire. He whirled back toward Crispin, a smile of victory on his face. “Ha! You can never stop me. I will be wealthy and powerful! And you, my poor, poor Crispin. Look at you. Bloody. Bruised. Helpless. You can’t do a thing !”

Helpless? He cut his glance to Jack but his vision was darkening. Blacking out. He had to hold on. He had to do something.

Giles laughed and it was that maniacal sound that gave Crispin a sudden bout of strength. He shook out his glazed head, gritted his teeth. Leaning against a pillar, he slowly pushed his way upward. His legs shuddered, no longer willing to uphold him, but from his will alone and the desperate blood surging through him, he thrust himself away from the pillar and stood upright. He took a long breath, braced himself, and leapt on Giles, spinning him around.

Giles’s face opened in surprise, but before he could react, Crispin growled, “Think again, you bastard!” and shoved his dagger deep into the man’s gut.

Giles grunted with the impact, but it wasn’t nearly enough for Crispin’s vengeance. He yanked the dagger upward, ripping open the cloth and flesh. Gore oozed over his hand and he remembered Giles’s taunt about how he enjoyed the feel of viscera in his hands. With a cry of bloodlust, Crispin yanked the blade all the way up to the man’s sternum. Giles’s wide, astonished eyes finally turned to fear. He choked a red cough, spattering his chin.

Crispin thought he heard the sound of something screaming, and the flames wavered wildly behind him. The smell of sulfur and puffs of angry black smoke choked the air before settling down to a gentle flickering of light.

Crispin yanked back his blade and watched the man sink to his knees. Gurgling, Giles reached his bloody hand toward Crispin, beseeching though he could no longer speak.

Awash in wet crimson, Crispin watched dispassionately through the smoky haze as Giles struggled, life slowly ebbing, his guts now steaming in the light. Hot blood dripped from Crispin’s knife hand, down his fingers, over the hilt, and slithered along the blade to the floor. “Here’s your sacrifice,” he growled. “Let the Devil take you .”

The flames twisted around the logs in the brazier and a candle sputtered. Giles breathed his last in a terrible rattle of groaning and the twisting of his body. A sudden whoosh of stale air whirled about him, riffling his hair. In his last throes, his leg jerked and toppled a brazier. The burning log rolled along the straw floor, leaving a blazing track. The fire jumped and wrestled with the furs and pillows. The stench of burning hair filled Crispin’s nose as the flames climbed, reaching the low rafters and burst into life.

Jack was suddenly surrounded by flames. The throbbing in Crispin’s skull finally overwhelmed him and he fell to his knees. No! Not now! He pulled himself forward, tried to crawl toward Jack when something large loomed over him. He could no longer see from the smoke and ash, but someone was lifting him by his waist, swinging him around, and suddenly he was moving, held like a sack against a hip. He felt the heavy footfalls as they left the smoke behind.

“Save the boy!” he croaked and then coughed uncontrollably.

Carried further until he felt the cold on his face, they climbed.

He was suddenly released into the snow where he groaned and slowly rolled to his back. He breathed the fresh, cold air, filling his lungs with relief, but even that was small comfort to the anguish that stabbed his heart. “Jack,” he whispered.

“M-master!” came the weak cry beside him.